Bleeding Out
by IsmayDeVain
Summary: How does Peter accepting a cup of cider save Neal's life? In more ways than Peter can imagine.- Not a crackfic, but slightly AU. However, there is plenty of hurt/comfort!
1. Strike One

**A/N: Alright, so this story needs a bit of explanation. I don't have cable, so I have to wait for the seasons of White Collar to come to Netflix. However, my dad watches the show and one night I was over there and I saw the scene where Peter tells Neal he's criminal and wouldn't be anything else until his sentence was over. And it made me very angry. It needled at the back of my mind until this story was born.**

**So, I don't know what's happening in season 5. I don't know if this story is even close to being accurate as far as displaying the characters' feelings. And I don't care because I'm going to teach Peter a lesson about being a jerk.**

**Now, as I was writing this story I came up with four different endings, and none of them would leave me alone, so I combined them into this Groundhog Day-esque storyline. It has a supernatural element, but it isn't too big. It was just the only way I could get the story to work.**

**With all of that out of the way, enjoy the story and look for more explanation at the end. Also, standard disclaimer and all that crap.**

**Thanks for reading!**

* * *

**Bleeding Out**

Seven hours and thirty-eight minutes before Peter would come face to face with his worst nightmare, Emi Holleran had a mental breakdown in the white collar conference room. Up until that point, the day had been a good one. The day after a long, hard case, it was an easy going office day, nothing but paperwork to finish and coffee to drink. Peter had been looking forward to the day's end when he could head home and eat takeout with Elle. He hadn't expected any drama that day.

Neal, apparently, had other plans.

It wasn't really his fault, but that wasn't going to stop Peter from blaming him. Nor was the fact that he'd been right. Maybe that was what irritated Peter the most.

It'd started months ago when Emi, a sweet little intern that blushed at the mention of her name and used way too many flower shaped sticky notes, was transferred to the white collar department. One day into her new assignment, it was obvious to the entire office that she'd developed a crush on Peter. She brought him special coffee, but conveniently forgot cups for everyone else. She offered her time and service even for cases she had no experience with, and stayed late hours despite not being paid. He thought it was cute; he even felt flattered.

But Neal insisted it was more than an office crush. As the days turned into weeks, Neal grew more certain that Emi was borderline stalking Peter. When Neal raised the topic, Peter brushed it off and told him to drop it, calling him paranoid and jealous. Neal was just making a mountain out of a mole hill.

Neal hadn't taken the hint, and had, in fact, taken the matter over his head.

So, now on this otherwise good winter's day, Peter stood with Neal, Emi, and Connie Davis, the Human Resource director, in the middle of the conference room, watching as Emi dissolved into tears.

"You can't do this," she sniffled, wiping giant tears from her wide, doe eyes, "I love working in this department, and my internship is up in only a few weeks. Why would you transfer me?"

Connie flicked her eyes to Neal, an unspoken conversation passing in a single glance. Peter ground his teeth. They were conspiring together and had been for weeks. Why couldn't Neal just drop it?

"Emi, you've already learned so much from white collar, but your area of study won't be here. Most interns spread their internship over two or three departments so that they get as much experience as possible."

Emi shook her head, "But I don't need to. Peter's been teaching me everything I need to know."

Peter flinched at the mention of his first name, but said nothing. Emi's attention may not always be appropriate, but it wasn't as problematic as Neal and Connie were making it out to be.

"It isn't just for your benefit," Connie continued, "Three of my interns have left. The other departments need the help and White Collar has all the help it needs."

"But it isn't fair," Emi protested. She turned to Neal, her tiny hands clenching into fists, "You did this, didn't you?"

The heated accusation threw Peter for a loop. He'd never heard something so venomous come from Emi before. Neal didn't answer her, but lifted his eyes to Peter as if proving a point. Peter had to admit, Emi's reaction to being transferred wasn't exactly normal.

"It was my decision," Connie insisted firmly, "and it's final."

Emi didn't seem to hear. She wasn't fear-inspiring in the least. Standing at just over five feet, she weighed a hundred pounds soaking wet and had the skeletal structure of a bird. She was pretty enough with innocent, wide eyes; a smattering of freckles over a delicate nose; and a small, heart-shaped mouth, none of which were intimidating. But anger made her features sharp and her eyes dark, and as she stood in front of Neal, Peter actually felt a flicker of doubt that he'd misjudged the situation.

"This is your fault," she hissed, "You've always been jealous of my friendship with Peter, and now you've gone and ruined it."

"I'm not trying to ruin anything, Emi," Neal said quietly, trying to keep his voice peaceable, "but I think you need some help."

Emi's eyes sparked with fire, "I don't need any help from you, convict."

Unable to stay quiet any longer, Peter stepped forward, "Emi, maybe it's time for you to go home."

Startled by Peter's voice, Emi jerked and turned to him, her wide eyes confused and suddenly full of tears again, "What?"

"I think you've had a stressful day," Peter said, "and you're obviously having a hard time with this change. So maybe you should take the rest of the day off. Get rid of the distractions and clear your head."

"Get rid of the distractions?" Emi repeated quietly.

Peter nodded, "What do you say?"

Slowly, Emi nodded, "You're right. You're right, that's exactly what I should do. I'm sorry for losing my cool. I'll just go now."

The trio watched her leave and walk down the stairs to her desk. When she was out of sight, Connie let out a powerful sigh of relief.

"That went better than I expected," she muttered and squeezed Neal's arm, "You were right, Neal. She's not right."

"I'll admit she has problems," Peter conceded when Neal looked at him, "but I still don't think she's dangerous. I mean, look at her. What harm could she possibly do to any one?"

Neal shrugged, "I know you don't believe me, Peter, but just because she's small doesn't mean she can't hurt someone. She's mentally unstable."

"Don't go throwing out psyche reviews, Neal. You aren't a shrink."

"I've been right so far, haven't I?"

He had been, and that was what set Peter on edge. How had Neal seen what no one else had? What made him an expert in stalkers all of a sudden? Was he planning some kind of con around Emi's behavior, working some kind of angle?

No matter how Peter tried to analyze it, he knew the reason it bothered him so much: Because Neal had cared enough to look out for him, even after Peter had dismissed him, even after Peter had told him he was a criminal and would be nothing else until his sentence was up.

So much for a good day.

The rest of his not-so-good day went by like molasses. By the time he was ready to go home six hours later, Peter was exhausted out of sheer boredom. Needing a small pick-me-up before heading home, he stopped at the vendor cart at the end of the block. Vincent sold hot beverages and pretzels, some of the best in the city, and Peter was dying for a hot cup of coffee. But surprisingly, it wasn't the robust Italian standing at the cart, but a young woman, dressed in a white trench coat and lavender, fingerless gloves.

"Hello, what can I get for you?" she asked, smiling wide.

"Large cup of coffee, black," Peter ordered, "Vincent gone for the day?"

"He's sick, actually, but he'll be back tomorrow." She poured the coffee, capping it quickly and expertly, "Are you sure you don't want anything else?"

"No, the coffee's fine."

"Really? Because I've got this awesome apple cider Vincent ordered last week. It's worth the try. Here, take a cup. On the house."

She handed him the coffee and offered him the smaller cup of cider, but Peter waved it away, "No, thank you. I don't think I'll need it."

The girl smiled, watching him with steel grey eyes, "Are you sure? You never know what one decision will do for the rest of your day. Maybe something good will happen if you take this cider."

Peter scoffed, "I don't think a cup of cider is going to make a big impact on my day. Besides, what would I do with it? I've already got the coffee."

"Maybe you know a friend that could use it."

Peter briefly thought of Neal, and how he'd not really thanked him for helping with Emi. But he quickly shook the thought away, laying the cash on the cart.

"No, I'll just take the coffee."

The girl's smile fell and she shrugged, "Your choice."

Bothered by the girl's sudden change in demeanor and the odd conversation, Peter hurried away. As he headed to the parking garage, he spotted Neal standing on the curb, hailing a cab as snow began to fall lightly around them. Turning up his collar and ducking his head, Peter hastened his pace, hoping Neal hadn't spotted him.

After stopping for Chinese takeout, Peter drove home, relaxed for the first time in hours. He was looking forward to arriving home, kicking off his shoes, and eating with Elle, both of them too exhausted and too content to cook. He drove lazily through the streets, listening to some new pop song he was actually beginning to enjoy.

"…_I'm bleeding out, so if the last thing that I do is bring you down, I'll bleed out for you…"_

And then, his phone rang.

Still humming to the lyrics he didn't know, he answered without looking at the caller ID, but all he got in return was heavy breathing.

"Hello? Who is this?"

_"P-Peter…"_

Something leaden and cold settled in the pit of Peter's stomach as he heard Neal's shaking, uncertain voice come over the line. It wasn't necessarily concern, more of a frustrated dread, a feeling that he seemed to get regularly whenever Neal was involved. It was as if Neal had become a chore, something he had to deal with but didn't want to in the slightest.

"Neal, what do you want?" Peter asked, hoping to keep the irritated grind from his words. It wasn't as if Neal had done anything to warrant such hostility.

_"Are you…"_ Neal breathed heavily, swallowing audibly over the phone, _"Are you home?"_

"On my way now. Did you need something other than my location?"

_"You have to get home,"_ Neal said, seemingly more alert, a note of urgency in his voice, _"You have to get there before she does."_

"Neal, what are you on about?"

_"She's going after Elle."_

The weight in his stomach turned to ice as fear rushed through him; his blood roared in his ears so loudly that for a moment he wondered if he'd heard Neal correctly. Immediately, his mind went through possible threats, but nothing stood out. None of the cases they were working were very dangerous and he hadn't been threatened by anyone.

"What are you talking about? Who's going after Elle?"

A pained grunt was his only answer followed closely by a whimper. Peter clutched the phone tightly in his hand, grinding the plastic casing together. He was torn between concern for Neal and fear for his wife, but it didn't take long for his marital bond to take over.

"Damn it, Neal. Answer me!"

_"Em…Emi."_

Some of the fear dissipated, like the air being let out of a balloon. Emi was not a threat, no matter what Neal claimed; she wasn't capable of hurting a fly. Still, his gut clenched and he pressed his foot harder on the accelerator.

"Neal, for crying out loud. Why are you so insistent that Emi is dangerous? She hasn't done anything to hurt anyone."

_"I b-beg to d-differ."_

"What's going on with you? You sound like you've been swimming in a frozen lake."

_"D-doesn't matter. You have to hurry, or she's gonna-"_

"I'm not playing this game with you, Neal. Whatever angle you're working, whatever con you're trying to pull, I'm not doing it."

_"She's going to kill her."_

The fear laced back through his veins like spider's web, thick and all-encompassing. He turned the next corner sharply, now only two blocks from his home; he could see the porch, half decorated with the lights he promised he'd put up over the weekend.

"Neal, if this is a trick-"

_"God damn it, Peter,"_ Neal said sharply, _"I know you think I'm the scum of the earth, but I'd never play with Elle's life. If you ever believed in me at all, get home before it's too late."_

Cursing under his breath, the weight solidified through his stomach and chest. Because Neal was right. No matter what had happened between them, no matter what Neal was or wasn't, he'd never hurt Elle or even pretend to.

"Alright, I'm here. I'm here, Neal."

_"Thank God."_

The two words, said in a hushed, exhausted whisper, were all that Neal had left. No matter how loudly Peter yelled, he didn't answer again. Concerned, but more worried for Elle, Peter snapped the car into park and ran into the house, letting the door bang open against the wall, knocking a frame to the floor.

"Elle? Elle, where are you?"

At first, there was no answer, and Peter's heart bottomed out as his mind went back to the night his wife had been taken. But then Elle appeared from the kitchen, her gloved hands dripping soapy water on the carpet as she stared at him with wide, fearful eyes.

"Peter, what's going on? What's wrong?"

Relieved beyond measure, he stepped across the room and took her in his arms, resting his chin on her head as she hugged him awkwardly with her elbows, not wanting to get his suit wet.

"You're scaring me," she muttered, her voice muffled in his lapel.

"We need to leave," he said, pulling her out to arms' length.

"Peter, I don't understand-"

"I know, but you have to trust me. We have to go."

Still skeptical, she started pulling the gloves off her hands, "Alright, just let me drain the water and-"

"No, Elle, now. We have to go now."

Grabbing her sopping hand, he turned towards the door and pulled up short. Behind him, Elle gasped and pressed her body into his back, hiding behind his protective stance. Standing in the gaping doorway with blood on her face and rips in her shirt was Emi. Pale and disheveled, she stepped past the threshold, kicking the door shut with her heel. Her left arm dangled uselessly by her side, the shoulder obviously displaced from its socket; her right arm was poised and tense, a thick kitchen knife held deftly in her fingers.

"Peter," she said with a smile, her tone light but strained, "you're home early."

"Emi, what are you doing here?" Peter asked, holding out his hands palms down.

"I came for a visit," she smiled, cocking her head to the side, "I'm doing what you told me to. 'Get rid of the distractions.' That's what you said, right?"

Peter nodded, eyeing the knife, "Yes, I did say that."

"Yeah," Emi chuckled, "those are the _words_ you used, but I knew what you _meant_. We'd already been pulled apart by so many other things; it was time we get rid of those distractions once and for all, right? I know that's what you wanted me to do, so we could be together."

"Peter," Elle whispered, pressed against his shoulder, "what is going on?"

Peter didn't answer her, only watched as Emi moved closer, one small step at a time. Her appearance and injury meant she'd been in a fight, but it hadn't been with Elle. What other 'distraction' could she have meant? Surely she viewed Elle as the biggest threat to her, the biggest obstacle between her and Peter. Yet she hadn't come here first. He glanced at the knife, noting the expensive brand and the blood tinged blade, and his mouth went as dry as the Sahara.

"Emi, what did you do?"

"I did what you wanted," she smiled sweetly, "No more distractions."

As she raised her arm, Peter changed tactics.

"Alright. Okay, Emi. You're right. I don't want any more distractions between us. So let's get away. Just the two of us, we'll leave right now and just drive somewhere. What do you say?"

The knife lowered slightly, "You mean it?"

"Of course. We can go anywhere you like. You name it."

A wistful look crossed her crazed face, "Niagara Falls. They have a chapel there, you know, for couples."

He felt nauseas at what she was implying, but he fought it down. He had to get her away from Elle; it was the only thing that mattered.

"Then let's go. We'll leave right now."

She smiled wide at him, her eyes brimming with tears, so happy and loving that it made his stomach turn. She dropped her arm, the knife swaying precariously by her hip.

"Oh, Peter. You've made me so happy," she turned her eyes to Elle, "but first we have to get rid of her."

"No," Peter said sharply. At Emi's startled look, he quickly softened his tone, "I mean we don't want to attract more attention. If we kill her, we'll have the cops on our tail, but if we just leave, no one will care."

"But, darling," Emi said, tilting her head to the side, all sweetness vanishing in an instant, "I've already killed tonight."

Elle gave a strangled gasp, curling her fingers tightly into his suit jacket. Before Peter could process what Emi had said, the deranged woman had raised the knife above her head and stepped around Peter, slashing the blade toward Elle's face. Peter shouted and acted instinctively, pushing Emi to the side as he used his body to shield Elle. Pain erupted across the palm of his hand as the blade sliced through his flesh. Emi and Elle screamed, their shrill echoes mixing together as one woman dove to the ground for cover and the other crashed against the table.

Emi whimpered in pain as her left shoulder connected with the corner of the table, her body spinning with the momentum of Peter's shove. She landed in a heap on the ground, screamed in pain and surprise, and lay still on the carpet. Red soaked her shirt on her left side where the knife had inadvertently stabbed her.

Peter stood paralyzed, cradling his injured hand to his chest. Already he could feel the warm blood seeping into the fabric of his shirt, saturating each thread and fiber. He stared with morbid fascination as a black-red puddle spread out from under Emi's crumbled body. It had all happened so quickly that if felt surreal, unimaginable.

From her place next to the couch, Elle sat up and pulled her legs to her stomach, watching the corpse of a woman she'd never met grow stiff in her dining room. Snapped out of his shock by her movements and stifled sobs, Peter knelt next to her, using his shoulders to block her view of Emi.

"Are you alright?" he demanded gently, touching her cheek with his uninjured hand. A bruise was beginning to form just under her cheek bone where she'd hit the couch arm in her haste to escape. Granted, he may have had a hand in it, pushing her out of the way as he had, but a small bruise was nothing compared to the damage the knife would have caused.

Elle nodded, tears slipping over her cheeks, "I don't understand. What just happened?"

"She…I don't know. I just thought she was a girl with a crush. I didn't think she'd…Neal was right. God, he was right and I didn't listen."

"Peter," Elle gasped, taking his left hand tenderly in hers, "Your hand!"

"It's alright," he said, but even as the words left his mouth, the pain came alive, hot and sharp as the skin around the cut stretched and tensed. He cupped it carefully, hoping to alleviate the radiating pain.

"It's not alright," Elle hissed, sobs catching in her throat, "She hurt you, and she was going to kill me! Why would she do that?"

Peter didn't know, so he just held his wife as she cried and called the police to come sort things out. They moved to the bottom of the stairs, as far from the body as they could get. Elle was stronger than any one he'd ever met, so Peter knew just how much she'd been rocked by Emi's attack as she dissolved into tears in his arms.

When the police came, followed closely by an ambulance, Peter told them about Emi's attack. As the paramedics stitched up his hand, Detectives Ramona and Grady listened patiently as Peter explained that he'd never seen Emi as a threat, never believed that she could be dangerous, and how close he'd come to being too late.

It wasn't until Detective Grady asked in a bored tone how Peter knew Emi was coming for Elle that Peter remembered Neal. And as the nagging worry in the back of his mind blossomed into full blown panic, all of the pieces fell into place.

_"Neal, for crying out loud. Why are you so insistent that Emi is dangerous? She hasn't done anything to hurt anyone."_

_ "I b-beg to d-differ."_

_ "But, darling," Emi said, tilting her head to the side, all sweetness vanishing in an instant, "I've already killed tonight."_

Peter barely remembered tearing away from the paramedics, mindless of the unfinished stitches in his hand and the shouts from the detectives. He yelled something about an ambulance and spouted off Neal's address before tearing off in his car as fast as he could. If nothing else, they'd follow him just to arrest him for driving recklessly.

The drive to Neal's apartment was a blur and he thanked God he'd made it without causing an accident. Barging into June's house without so much as knocking, he took the steps two at a time to the apartment door. Opening it, he was thrown into a war zone.

The table and chairs were over turned; bottles were broken and shattered and bleeding wine into the carpet. One pane of the balcony's door was shattered, the pieces littering the floor like diamonds. And lying behind the over turned table was an unmoving body.

"Neal," Peter breathed, the name choked by tears and pain. He crossed the room as his heart thundered in his chest, already knowing what he would find as he rounded the table.

Neal lay on his stomach, one arm tucked under his body, the other nestled next to his face, his phone propped up by limp fingers. Still dressed in the slacks and dress shirt he'd been wearing at the office, he looked as if he were asleep as the shadows of the street lights danced over him through the balcony windows.

But Peter knew better, even as his heart played with the hope that Neal had just been knocked silly by Emi and not mortally wounded. He knelt beside Neal, calling his name in a broken whisper as he shook the other man's shoulder. When Neal didn't answer, didn't even stir, Peter took a fortifying breath and turned him over.

Neal was like pliable clay, falling limply to his back, his head lolling across the rug as if it were barely attached. Now, with the light casting over Neal's stomach and his face turned towards the ceiling, Peter saw with perfect clarity exactly what Emi had done.

A jagged, open wound was slashed across Neal's chest, the blood still glistening across the saturated shirt, the fibers too full to absorb more. Below that were two stab wounds, one on the left side only inches from his heart, the other just to the right of his navel. Both had bled profusely, turning the light blue shirt a rust colored red. His face was paler than the moon and speckled with flecks of blood, his lips stained with it as his body had tried to expel the blood filling his punctured lung.

Peter's hands hovered over the wounds, begging to do something but knowing nothing he did would help, too shocked to move. No, not shocked. _Devastated._ Neal was dead. There was no chance of survival, no threadbare fragment of hope that he could be saved. Because Neal was _dead_.

The cell phone was still cupped in Neal's upturned hand, the screen splattered with dots of blood and bloody thumb prints where Neal had touched it. Realization dawned on Peter with the weight of a thousand bricks. Neal had been bleeding out, _dying_, as he called Peter to warn him about Emi. He had been weak, barely able to hold the phone much less dial, but instead of calling 911, instead of taking the slight chance that he could be saved, he'd called Peter, desperate to save Elle's life over his own.

The conversation replayed over in Peter's head and his mind latched on to all of the obvious signs of distress: the way Neal had stuttered, the way he had sounded so feeble, as if he could barely get the words passed his lips. And his last words to Peter, _Thank God_, had been said with his last breath of strength as his spent body gave out, nothing left to hold on to when his mission had been completed.

Peter gently picked up the phone, cradling the cold device as if it were a holy relic. The screen came to life as he touched it, lighting up the darkness with its tiny white face. Startled, Peter glanced at it and was shocked by its display.

Neal, alone and dying, bleeding out from wounds too numerous to count, had used his last remaining moments to type out two words, knowing that Peter would be the one to find him, knowing that it would be far too late for either of them to say what they wanted.

**Bye Pete**

Neal never called him Pete, and the implications of the unused nickname were almost too much for him to bear. Either Neal had been too weak to type the entire name and had given up, or he had died with his thumb hovering over the **r**, determined to finish the farewell, but succumbing to death before he could. It was the knowledge that Neal had used what little life he had left to tell him goodbye that became Peter's undoing.

The sobs, hot and painful, choked him, lodging an unmoving mass in his throat. Blinded by tears, Peter gathered the body in his arms, shuddering as Neal's head fell back over his arm as if attached by a string, and pressed his face in the space between Neal's shoulder and neck. He rocked back and forth, gasping for breath as he cried. Already, Neal's body had begun to cool and it felt disturbing in contrast to the warm, congealing blood staining his shirt and the carpet around them.

For once, Peter had no plan of action. He had no idea what to do next, how to go forward. There was only this moment and beyond that was an unimaginable void that would swallow him whole if he let himself consider it. At some point, he would have to get up and call the police. He would have to tell Elle and June and Mozzie. He would have to move on.

But for now, he held the cooling body of his friend, and mourned the life that had been taken and all of the things he never said.

* * *

Outside the luxurious home, standing on the opposite side of the street under a flickering lamp post, stood a young woman dressed in a white trench coat, holding a steaming cup of hot chocolate. As the sounds of mournful keening echoed down from the balcony, her heart ached a little, and she wished she could take away his pain. There was nothing as heart breaking as losing someone you loved too soon, too suddenly. But she knew she couldn't change what had happened; she could only do her job.

Her steel grey eyes sparked and glimmered, and the world began to shift.

_**"Stop. Go back."**_


	2. Strike Two

Peter jerked back as if the coffee had scalded his hands, his heart hammering in his chest like a freight train barreling down the tracks. His vision tilted, whitening on the edges, as he fought off the dizziness and forced his feet to stay grounded. The girl stood in front of him, still smiling slightly, still holding the cider out like a peace offering.

"Are you alright?" she asked, flicking her bangs out of her face, "You don't seem well."

Peter physically shook himself, confused by the sudden episode, "I'm fine. Thanks for the cider, but I think I'll pass."

"Are you sure? You never know what one decision will do to your whole day."

"I don't think a cup of cider is going to change the course of my day."

She turned her steel grey eyes to him, "You sure about that, Peter?"

Startled by the use of his first name (and even more so by the omnipotent glint in her eyes) Peter nodded, grabbed his coffee, and hurried away. He felt the girl watching him and forced himself not to look back. Shaking off the strange encounter, he headed toward the car park, grateful that the day was over and he could head home to his wife. Half way there, he spotted Neal hailing a cab and waved when the younger man saw him.

"Headed home?" he asked, sipping the coffee.

Neal nodded, "Don't suppose I could bum a ride?"

Peter frowned, instantly irritated that Neal would try to use him. He knew it was irrational to think that Neal wanted to take advantage of him. It was freezing outside and beginning to snow; not to mention it was hard to get a cab this time of day, and they weren't cheap.

Peter glanced toward the garage, "I kind of have plans with Elle tonight."

Neal smirked, "Big date night?"

"Something like that."

"Don't worry about it. It was a long shot anyway. See you tomorrow."

As Neal climbed into the cab, something tightened in Peter's stomach. For a moment, he had the crazy idea to stop Neal and take him home, maybe even to the house to have dinner with them. They hadn't had him over in weeks, and if he was honest, he missed the friendship. But he'd promised to be less emotionally involved, so he shoved the feelings aside and smiled at Neal as the cab pulled away.

Finally reaching his car, Peter decided to head straight home instead of stopping to get takeout like he'd originally planned. He wanted to go out even though they'd both agreed to stay in for the evening. Maybe if he couldn't convince her to go out, they could just order in. For whatever reason, he felt that he needed to get home as quickly as possible.

When Peter finally pulled up to his house, he felt a sudden rush of relief as if he'd made it just in time. He didn't understand the weird feelings he'd been having, but he chalked it up to the bizarre encounter with the woman at the vendor's; she'd unsettled him in ways he couldn't grasp. Shaking off the memory of her all-knowing gaze, Peter locked the car and headed inside.

"Elle? I'm home."

Elle appeared from the kitchen, pulling on dry rubber gloves, smiling wide, "You're home early."

He kissed her hello, "I want to go out tonight."

"I thought we were going to stay in. I just filled the sink to do the dishes."

Peter shook his head, "I want to go out, maybe to a good restaurant. What do you say?"

She giggled, "I've never seen you so spontaneous. Let me drain the water and clean up a little."

As she turned to leave, Peter grabbed her arm and pulled her close to him, "Forget it. It can wait. Let's go right now."

Puzzled, but excited by her husband's impulsive behavior, Elle smiled, "Fine, but you're going to drain that freezing water when we get back."

"Whatever you want," Peter smirked, kissing her quickly.

Elle pulled off the gloves and laid them on the table as Peter grabbed her coat. They headed back towards the city, holding hands, acting like a newly married couple instead of the marital veterans they were. Tired of the commercials, Elle changed the radio station and started humming to the song.

_"…so I bare my skin and I count my sins and I close my eyes and I take it in, I'm bleeding out, I'm bleeding out for you, for you…"_

"I think I've heard this song before," Peter muttered as his phone began ringing.

"Don't you just love it?" Elle asked, bobbing her head to the lyrics.

Peter was finally able to extract his phone from his coat pocket and answered it quickly, afraid that it would roll over to voice mail.

"Hello?"

_ "P-Peter."_

"Neal? Are you alright? You sound out of breath."

_ "You have to get home, Peter."_

"I just left home. Elle and I are going out. Neal, what's going on?"

_ "Elle's with you?"_

Peter glanced at his wife who turned down the radio and watched him with a worried expression, "Yeah, she's right here."

_"Good,"_ Neal sighed, _"That's good."_

"You want to let me know what's happening, Neal?"

_ "She…she's coming after Elle. You have to keep her safe."_

Startled, Peter gripped the steering wheel tightly and pulled to the side of the road, "Who is, Neal?"

Neal moaned, but it quickly turned into a pained whimper. Peter's heartbeat rose.

"Neal, come on, buddy. Answer me."

_ "Em…Emi. It's Emi, Peter."_

"Emi? Neal, she wouldn't hurt a fly. She isn't dangerous."

_ "I b-beg to d-differ."_

"What happened? Are you hurt?"

_"She came here,"_ Neal whispered, his energy spent, _"She…she had a knife."_

Peter jolted upright, spinning the wheel as he drove precariously back into traffic. Elle gripped the door and the handle above her tightly, but didn't say a word of protest. The fear forming in her eyes was nearly palpable.

"Neal, tell me what happened."

Neal chuckled humorlessly, _"Th-thought it'd be obvious. Not m-many things you do with…with a knife."_

Peter cursed loudly, ignoring the blaring horns of angry drivers as he cut them off, "Is she still there?"

_"No,"_ Neal murmured, his voice fading, _"no…"_

"Neal, stay with me. We're almost there. Do you hear me? Neal!"

He didn't receive an answer. Elle took the phone from his hand, allowing him to concentrate on driving as she dialed the police. Peter parked illegally on the curb and ran for the house. He thought about ordering Elle to stay put, but one look at her fiercely concerned face and he knew it was a losing battle.

The apartment was in tatters, littered with broken bottles and shattered furniture. Lying in the midst of it all was Neal, propped up haphazardly against the over turned table. He lifted half-hooded eyes to Peter, a small mirthless smile on his blood stained lips.

"Hey, Peter."

The two breathless words spurred Peter into action. He called for Elle to find towels and fell to his knees beside Neal, eyes scanning the wounds marring his chest and stomach. The slash on his chest, though seeping blood steadily, wasn't deep; it was a flesh wound at best. The two stab wounds were far more worrisome, one just under his heart and the other by his kidneys. Already, his blue shirt looked black.

"Jesus, Neal," Peter breathed, hands hovering uselessly over the bloody mess.

"It's…not as b-bad as it looks."

"You're a crappy liar," Peter said, resting his hand on Neal's shoulder, desperate for physical contact, but dreading it just the same. It meant that this was real; it meant Neal might be dying.

Elle appeared, arms draped with towels from the bathroom. She dropped next to Neal, eyes already filling with tears but her face a mask of determination. Peter pressed the towels against the second stab wound and the slash, letting Elle press her small hands against the wound on the left side. Neal hissed, arching his back as pain spiked through him.

"Oh, Neal," Elle whispered brokenly, "I'm sorry."

"It's…it's okay," Neal lied, clenching his eyes shut and biting his lip.

"The ambulance is on its way," Peter said, "You're going to be fine."

Neal scoffed, "Now…now who's a cr-crappy liar."

"Who did this?" Elle asked, shaking her head in disbelief, "Why would someone do this to you?"

"She said 'no more dis-distractions," Neal said, "I knew she was m-mad that I had her trans-transferred. Never…never even saw the knife."

"I should have listened to you," Peter hissed angrily, "You knew she was dangerous and you tried to tell me, but I blew you off. God, Neal, I'm so sorry."

"She wants Elle," Neal said, gripping Peter's wrist with a fierce but weak grip, "She's gonna…gonna come for her."

"Don't worry about me," Elle said gently, risking letting up on the pressure to wipe the limp curls from Neal's ashen face, "She won't get near me. We have to worry about you."

Neal tried to smile at her, but his chest abruptly convulsed as his damaged lung tried to purge the blood filling it like helium inflating a balloon. Blood spurted from his lips as he coughed explosively, tingeing his teeth and tongue pink. As the coughing fit subsided, the strength that had kept Neal upright vanished; his body seemed to shrink and wilt like a puppet on marionette strings left abandoned. Deserting the towel, Peter hastily wrapped his arm behind Neal's shoulders, easing his descent to the ground. Still choking on the blood coating the back of his throat, Neal burrowed into Peter's embrace, desperate to ease his suffering. All the while, Peter repeated his litany of 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry.'

"Easy, Neal, just breathe," Elle pleaded, dropping the towels and clutching his bloody hand in hers.

"Not gonna m-make it," Neal breathed wetly, the words coming out with tiny bubbles of blood.

"You are," Peter said, forcing his voice to stay steady, "You're going to make it. The ambulance will be here any minute. Just stay with me."

Neal struggled to raise his eyes up to Peter's face, "I w-wanted to finish it, but…I don't th-think I c-can."

"Finish what?"

"M-my sent-sentence…w-wanted…to be your f-friend, but I'm gonna die a…a cr-criminal."

Peter felt as if his heart had been ripped from his chest and crushed. What little control he had over his emotions evaporated. He held Neal to his chest, dropping his forehead to Neal's as tears and sobs strangled his words and made it impossible to say what he wanted, what Neal needed to hear. Elle let loose a stifled wail, pressing Neal's limp hand to her chest just below her neck. The couple hovered over him like a shelter, as if by placing their bodies protectively around him they could somehow ward off death itself. But nothing could stop the inevitable.

Breathless, Neal whispered, "Bye, P'tr…"

The last syllable died on his lips as his heart gave out and his chest stilled. Peter sobbed, but Elle wasn't ready to face the truth.

"Peter, do something," she begged, "Do CPR. Something! He's dying!"

Peter pulled away from the body, not ready to let go completely, "Elle, he's gone."

"No! No, he's not. We have to bring him back. You're not even trying!"

"Elle, CPR doesn't work when the victim bleeds out."

Reality crashed down on her. It was as if a dam had been broken, freeing the sobs and cries with the force of a torrential rainstorm. She crumbled under the weight of her grief, falling forward against Peter's shoulder across Neal's prone body. Peter wrapped his right arm around her shoulders and buried his face in her hair, but kept his arm beneath Neal, unable to let go.

Moments later, the paramedics arrived to find the couple grieving over the body of their friend. One stepped forward to move them away, but the other held him back, knowing that there was nothing they could do for the dead, but they could let the living mourn. So they waited with averted gazes as the heart wrenching sounds echoed around them.

Peter raised his head as his sobs began to ease. Behind the paramedics, he saw someone standing in the door way, dressed in a white trench coat, holding a cup of cocoa. The girl with the steel grey eyes watched him warily, empathy scrawled across her pretty face. She sipped her drink and then said three words as clear and as loud as a bell ringing beside him.

_**"Stop. Go back."**_


	3. Strike Three

Frozen in his place, Peter waited for the strange images to fade from his vision. They weren't clear, but shrouded in shadows, like dreams he couldn't recall the details of, only felt the emotions left behind. His heart pounded in his chest as the heavy feeling of grief faded to the back ground. The girl stood in front of him, waiting patiently with her hand extended.

"You okay there, buddy?" she asked.

"Um," Peter muttered, shaking his head, "I think so."

"Here, take the cider. Maybe it will brighten your day."

"No, that's alright. I'll just have my coffee."

"You sure? You never know what a tiny decision can do for the rest of your day."

"I hardly think a cup of hot cider is going to make a big diff…" Peter stopped, the words trailing off as déjà vu washed over him. The girl arched an eyebrow and tilted the covered cup toward him.

"You never know," she smirked.

Numbly, Peter took the cup from her hand, "Yeah…thanks."

Still watching him with eyes the color of gun metal, she sipped her own cup of cocoa. Feeling uneasy by her perceptive stare, Peter paid too much and hurried away from the cart. Now armed with his coffee and the unwanted cider, Peter headed to the parking garage, intending to throw the cup away at the first chance. But then he noticed Neal standing on the curb, waving down a reluctant cab while adjusting the collar of his heavy coat.

Peter paused, frowning. It was beginning to snow, and the cars on the street were turning the white fluffy flakes into brown, muddy slush. And Neal looked exhausted. After the episode with Emi earlier, he understood why. Granted, he didn't agree with Neal that Emi was even close to dangerous, but he appreciated Neal's concern. On such a gloomy day, the least he could do was drive him home.

Tossing the cup of cider in the garbage can, he tapped Neal's shoulder, "Heading home?"

Neal offered a tired smile, "If I could ever hail a cab, I'd be there by now."

"You'll never get a cab this time of day. I'll give you a lift."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive. Elle and I don't have any plans for tonight. I can spare a few minutes to get you home. Come on."

Neal followed, grateful that he didn't have to find a cab. The ride was quiet as they turned out of the garage and headed toward Neal's apartment. Peter wasn't sure where to direct the conversation. The only topic that was circling his mind was Emi, and those were dangerous waters. Neal didn't offer any help as he leaned against the door and rested his head against the cool glass. Done with the awkward silence, Peter turned on the radio.

_"…You tell me to hold on, you tell me to hold on, but innocence is gone and what is right is wrong…"_

"This is a good song," Neal muttered.

"Doesn't sound like something you would listen to," Peter said, smirking, "It didn't come out of the 18th century."

"That's called taste and culture, Peter."

"It's called boring."

Neal chuckled, "I would think you'd like Bach and Mozart. You know, since they're from your youth."

"Are you calling me old?"

Neal cracked an eye, "Are you saying you're not?"

Peter laughed, resisting the sudden impulse to reach across and ruffle Neal's perfectly styled hair. He hadn't felt this at ease with Neal in a long time, and, honestly, it scared him. Given his promise to Elle to stay emotionally distant, he couldn't afford to be friends with Neal until his sentence was over.

As the second awkward silence filled the cab, the song ended and thankfully so did the ride. Peter parked in front of June's house, feeling guilty and detached, but Neal didn't seem to notice.

"Thanks for the ride, Peter. I'd still be at the bureau otherwise."

"No problem. Glad to help."

With nothing left to say, Neal stepped out and waved goodbye, disappearing into the house. Peter drove forward, but something nagged in the back of his mind, a small regret at not offering Neal friendship when they both obviously wanted it. He parked the car half a block down the street, pulled out his phone, and called Elizabeth with his proposal.

_"You want to have him over?"_

"Yes."

_"For dinner tonight? Peter, I thought we weren't going to cook tonight, just relax."_

"We still can. Neal won't mind take out, and he's just as tired as we are."

_"So why have him over at all?"_

"We haven't had him over in a long time, Elle."

_"There's a reason for that, Peter. Have you forgotten what you decided?"_

"I remember, but I don't see why we can't eat with him and have a peaceful night."

Elle sighed, _"You've already made up your mind, haven't you?"_

"I'm not going to do anything you don't want to, hon."

_"Well, I'm not going to be a bad guy and say no, but he'd better bring some good wine."_

Peter chuckled, "Thanks, hon. We'll be home in a while."

After exchanging 'I love you's', Peter hung up and decided to leave the car parked where it was. He walked back to the house and as he reached the stairs, he was startled to see the door open. Looking closer, he saw that the lock had been inexpertly picked and left ajar just a crack. Instantly put on edge, Peter un-holstered his gun and stepped inside.

The house was quiet and dark, only a faint light glowing from the back. Certain that June was out of town and with his concern directed to Neal, Peter rushed quietly up the stairs to the apartment only to find the door wide open and a very disturbing scene inside.

Neal was lying on the ground between a broken chair and an overturned table, a deep slash across his chest and his arms thrown out to the sides as he stared dazedly at the ceiling, a small head wound leaking blood lazily across his forehead. Kneeling beside him with one arm dangling and the other raised above her head, Emi poised the knife, ready to plunge it into Neal's chest.

"Emi, stop!"

She jerked her head up, her eyes sparking with hope, "Peter."

"Drop the knife, Emi," Peter ordered.

"I can't do that, sweetie. I have to get rid of the distractions."

Peter didn't know what she was talking about, and he didn't have time to figure it out. Neal was bleeding out on the floor.

"Emi, put down the knife. Now."

Emi narrowed her dark eyes at his angry tone. She turned to Neal and grew furious.

"You want to save him," she shrieked, "He's a criminal, Peter, and that's all he will ever be. It doesn't matter what he does or how much time passes; he will always be a criminal and he will always use you!"

"Emi, you need to put down the knife."

"He tore us apart!" she screamed, "He has to die!"

She raised the knife up again and left Peter no choice. He fired one shot, cringing when Emi screamed as the bullet pierced her arm. The knife tumbled harmlessly to the ground and Emi crumpled into a whimpering heap. Peter hurried forward, kicking away the knife and cuffing Emi despite her mewling protest. He was too worried about Neal to care if he hurt her.

"Neal, are you alright?" he demanded, dropping to his knees and turning Neal's face towards him.

Dazed and in pain, eyelids fluttering open to little slits, Neal licked his lips and tried to focus, "Peter?"

"Easy, buddy. Don't try to move just yet. Let me take a look at what she's done."

The laceration was just under his collar bone, beginning at the top of his left shoulder and slashing downward to his right side. While it bled heavily, it didn't seem to be very deep, and could have been so much worse.

"You're going to be fine, Neal," Peter assured him, stripping off his jacket and pressing it over the wound, "Just hold this here while I call the police."

Neal muttered ascent and limply held the coat in place as he fought to keep his eyes open. Peter prayed Neal's drowsiness came from a concussion and not from something worse that he couldn't see. As quickly as he could, he dialed 911 and then waited with bated breath as he kept one eye on his ailing friend and the other on the insane woman across the room.

Almost two hours later, after the scene had been secured and Emi had been carted off to have her injuries cared for under the careful watch of a police officers, Peter stood in the middle of Neal's hospital room, watching as a nurse took his vital signs and readjusted his pillows to prop him upright. The gown Neal was wearing had slipped down, revealing glimpses of the stark white bandage covering the thirty-seven stitches in the deep cut across his chest. He'd been diagnosed with a mild concussion, but the small gash on the side of his head hadn't needed anything more than a few butterfly strips.

"You came back," Neal said once the nurse had left the room.

"Good thing too. Who knows what she would have done if I hadn't."

That was a lie; they both knew what she would have done.

"Believe me, I'm grateful," Neal smirked, "but why did you come back?"

Peter sighed, eyeing the chair the nurse had left for him beside Neal's bed. Unable to bring himself to sit down, Peter stuffed his hands in his pockets and thought of the best way to answer Neal's question and all of the smaller questions it inadvertently raised.

"I was actually coming to get you," Peter said slowly, "I was going to invite you over to have dinner with me and Elle."

"Really? And Elle was fine with that?"

Peter hated the hopeful glimmer in Neal's eyes; it made what he was about to say that much harder.

"Elle was, but I'm not sure I am anymore."

The happiness melted from Neal's face, "What?"

"I don't think I can do…" Peter gestured between the two of them, "this."

"I don't understand. What changed between that phone call and now? Is it because of Emi?"

"No. Well, sort of. She's crazy, and I am beyond grateful that you were watching out for me, but what she said was true."

"What did she say?" Neal asked, his mouth caught between a scowl and a smirk, "I was kind of out of it, if you remember. You know, getting stabbed by your stalker and all."

Peter didn't rise to the bait, "She said that you were a criminal and no matter what, that's what you would always be."

Now Neal did scowl, "You've already told me that. Quite emphatically, in fact."

"No, I said you were a criminal until your sentence was over, but I was wrong. Those fundamental qualities- that impulsiveness, that devil-may-care attitude, that selfishness- they will always be there whether you're on that anklet or not."

"Selfishness? You can really call me that after I get attacked by a threat you refused to see?"

"I'm not demeaning what happened. I'm stating facts. Every time we try to be friends and be a part of each other's personal lives, one of us either ends up in the hospital or in a jail cell. You finishing your sentence isn't going to change that or anything else. You're a criminal, Neal, and I can't be friends with a criminal."

Neal looked as if he'd been punched in the gut, "So that's it? That's how it has to be?"

Peter nodded, "I'm sorry, but yes. We work well as a team, and I'm willing to keep that professional relationship going, but outside of work…" Again, he gestured between them, "this can't happen."

"Wow," Neal breathed, staring at his hands, "that hurt worse than the knife."

"I'm sorry, Neal. I wish things could be different."

Neal scoffed, "So do I, but I can't make you be my friend, Peter. And frankly, if I have to constantly prove myself to you, then you wouldn't be much of a friend anyway."

"Neal, I can't-"

"Agent Burke, they need you outside."

Peter turned to the nurse poking her head into the room and nodded, silently relieved to be taken out of the tense atmosphere of the room. He didn't say goodbye to Neal, just turned on his heel and walked out the door before he lost his resolve. Down the hall and to the left, the two detectives working the case stood in the small waiting room. The woman, short and lean, smiled at him when he entered, trying to put him at ease; the other detective, a wall of a man, merely grunted.

"Agent Burke, how's your friend?" Detective Ramona asked.

Peter nearly faltered at the terminology, but kept his cool and smiled, "He's fine. They're just keeping him for observation tonight."

"Glad to hear it," Ramona said, "Grady and I have been to Ms. Holleran's apartment and we've found some things that we thought you'd be interested in."

Detective Grady held up an evidence bag. Inside the clear plastic was a small leather bound journal. With gloved hands, Ramona pulled the book out and flipped to the middle.

"Your buddy was right," Grady said, "She was definitely wacko."

"Clinically insane," Ramona corrected her partner, "She'd developed an obsession with you not long after she started working for your department."

Peter nodded, "It was after only three weeks that Neal started bringing it up. I should have listened to him then."

"Based on what I've read so far, I think your friend has experience with stalkers," Ramona said, "He recognized the signs very quickly, and according to the journal, he started doing things about it."

"What do you mean?"

"Mr. Caffrey ran interference," Grady grumbled, "He put himself between you and her as much as he could. He made himself a target for her anger."

Peter shook his head, "I don't understand."

Ramona quickly explained, "Stalkers start out sweet, but eventually when their object of affection doesn't return the feelings, they turn aggressive, sometimes violent. Mr. Caffrey seemed to know that. He was trying to drive a wedge between you and Ms. Holleran."

"You were the object of affection," Grady clarified, "He was the object of aggression."

"Why would he do that?"

"You'd have to ask him that," Grady said, "My guess, he was trying to keep you safe when she finally snapped. Seemed to work."

"There's more, Agent Burke," Ramona said, clearing her throat, "Mr. Caffrey wasn't her only target. The diary says she met your wife once, a couple of weeks ago. Do you remember that?"

Peter nodded, vaguely remembering when Elle had come to the office to make plans for lunch. She'd only been there a few minutes before Emi came running in, saying there was an urgent call that could lead to a break in the case. Elle had left, not wanting to interfere and promising to have lunch another day, but the call had been lost. At least, that was what Emi claimed; now, Peter saw it as the lie it was.

"She targeted your wife that day, Agent Burke," Grady said, not unkindly, "She saw her as a rival and she planned to take her out."

"She was going to come after Elle?" Peter felt as if the world had bottomed out underneath him, leaving him suspended, free falling through space.

Ramona nodded, "She'd been planning it for a while. Seems she thought the two of you were going to run off to Niagara Falls together and elope. But her plans changed when Mr. Caffrey interfered."

"Your buddy saved your wife's life," Grady grunted.

The truth of that statement was overwhelming. Faced with it and with what he'd just said to Neal, Peter felt like an absolute jerk. He wondered how much humble pie he would have to eat before Neal forgave him, _if _Neal would even forgive him.

"We still have to get both of their statements," Ramona was saying, "but we're pretty certain of our findings. Depending on the courts, Ms. Holleran should be going away for a very long time."

Peter nodded numbly, but before he could ask any more questions, a blood curdling scream echoed through the hallways. Instinctively, Peter rushed into the hall, reaching for his gun before remembering that it'd been taken for processing. Behind him, Grady and Ramona had their guns out and ready as they followed Peter into the hall, only to come across a scene from a horror movie.

Emi, barefoot and dressed in scrubs, shuffled down the hall, blood dripping from her hands and the scalpel held tightly in her fist. Blood was splattered across the stark white of her scrub top; it congealed in her hair and on the bottom of her right foot. The wound on her left shoulder had opened up and bled copiously, drenching most of her left side. Pale and weak, she had eyes only for Peter as she hobbled along the tile, a gory spectacle for the shocked nursing staff.

"Peter," she whispered breathlessly, "I did it."

Peter had lost his voice, had completely disconnected from the world. In the back of his mind, he knew what she'd done, but he couldn't force his body to react. He could only stare as she trundled closer and closer.

"Aren't you proud of me?" she asked, tears leaking from her eyes and mixing with the blood on her cheeks, "I did what you wanted. I got rid of the distractions."

"No, Emi," Peter said softly, "No."

Emi stopped, her fingers loosening around the scalpel as she stared dumbfounded at Peter. Grady and Ramona flanked him, keeping their guns aimed at the deranged woman as they waited for their chance to take her out.

"I just want you to love me," she murmured, her eyes drooping as the blood loss took its toll, "Can't you love me?"

Peter shook his head, "Never."

A low, keening sound tore out of Emi's throat. The scalpel clattered to the tile as her knees gave out and she collapsed to the ground. Immediately, Grady and Ramona surged on her and contained the threat. Nurses stood by anxiously, waiting to take over when the detectives cleared her.

But Peter was staring at the half-made bloody footprints leading back down the hall.

He ran. Time seemed to slow down and solidify around him. His limbs couldn't move fast enough, as if they were battling the oncoming waves of the sea. He followed the footprints back even though he already knew where they'd come from. And when he burst into Neal's room, his worst fears were confirmed.

Neal lay in the bed, propped up as the nurse had left him, his head leaning against the guardrail. The I.V. stand and monitors lay broken on the ground; the line, having been ripped from his arm, left a bloody wound on the top of his hand. His face was turned toward Peter, his eyes wide open and unblinking, a thin trail of blood trickling from his slightly parted lips.

The room was coated in blood; it was dripping with it, flooded with it. The white gown and blanket covering Neal were drenched in crimson. It smeared the walls and the bed rails; it permeated the air, choking Peter with its coppery stench.

Gagging, Peter fell back against the wall, covering his mouth as grief and loss besieged him. He couldn't even tell how many times he'd been stabbed because the blood was too thick.

The nursing staff barged into the room seconds after Peter, rushing around Neal's bed with shouts and orders and desperate attempts to save a life already gone. Peter watched with dread and guilt, unable to form tears passed the shock. He turned to the door, still numb, and froze at the sight of a young girl in a white trench coat. She stood in the middle of the hall while people surged around her; her steel grey irises never wavered from his as tears pooled in her eyes, and she spoke with a quavering, melodious voice.

_**"Stop. Go Back."**_


	4. Last Chance

Peter nearly fell to his knees as the world shifted around him. He teetered to the side, only saved from doing a face plant on the sidewalk by the girl holding out the cider. He shook off the strange feeling and offered a smile of gratitude, but the girl glared at him.

"You'd better get it right this time," she said, narrowing her eyes at him, "I'm getting tired of this."

"Excuse me?"

"I'm serious. I'm beginning to think you're never going to get it."

He looked at his hands holding the coffee and the cider, "But I took the cider."

"Yeah," she said, drawing out the word like she was talking to a child, "now what are you going to do with it?"

Peter stared at her, astonished. The girl waved her hand at him, shooing him like a fly.

"Get going, and for God's sake, get it right."

Still reeling, Peter clutched the cups and stumbled away, watching the girl over his shoulder. She crossed her arms and glared at him. What was her problem? Was she on drugs? Peter shook his head, deciding to forget about the girl and head home. Almost to the garage, he noticed Neal walking to the curb with his shoulders hunched against the cold. Frowning, Peter intercepted him.

"Neal, wait up. Where are you going?"

Neal blinked at him, "Home, Peter. It's the end of the day, if you hadn't noticed."

Peter rolled his eyes, "I am aware of the passing of time, thank you."

"Only because it's passed you so many times, old man. Now, if you don't mind, I have a cab to hail."

"No, you don't."

"I don't?"

Peter handed him the cider, "Your cab has already been hailed, and you're headed in the wrong direction if you want to catch it."

Neal grinned as he took the steaming cup of cider, "Are you offering me a ride home?"

Peter clasped Neal's shoulder and turned him toward the garage without saying a word. They hurried through the falling snow into the parking enclosure, grateful for the Taurus' fantastic heater. As they headed toward the bridge, Neal sipped his cider and warmed his hands over the vents.

"This is great, Peter," he sighed, "Thank you for the ride."

"Well, it is freezing outside, and I figured we should probably talk about today."

Neal slumped in his seat, "Peter, I'm not up for arguing."

"Who said anything about arguing? I said talk."

"Alright, what do you want to 'talk' about?"

"Don't do the air quote thing. You look like Mozzie."

Neal chuckled.

Peter sighed, "Look, I just wanted to say that I was sorry."

"For what?"

"For not listening to you when you brought up Emi the first time four weeks ago. I may not see what you do in her, I may not even believe half of the things you do about her, but I should have at least listened. You obviously knew what you were talking about."

"She isn't well, Peter."

"Yeah, I gathered that after the little display this morning."

"Connie thinks that we're done, that the crisis has been averted, but it's not over."

"What do you mean?"

"People like Emi have a pattern. They have delusions about how they and their object of affection interact, but eventually reality sets in and they see that their obsession doesn't return their feelings. That's when things get bad."

"Bad like violent?"

Neal shrugged, "Possibly. Some stalkers react violently toward the obsession or the obsession's loved ones. Others become self-harming, thinking if they hurt themselves the obsession will change their mind. You know the 'I'll show them' mentality."

"And you think Emi is…?"

"I'm not sure. Either way, she needs help."

Peter nodded turning towards June's house, "How do you know all of this, Neal?"

"I do have an education, Peter."

"I'm serious, Neal. You've seen all of the signs ten steps ahead of everyone else. You know more about this than the average person. It almost sounds like you've…"

"Been through it?"

Peter nodded, not willing to voice the accusation aloud.

"Well, that would be because I have. Sort of."

"How do you 'sort of' have a stalker?"

"Now who's doing the air quotes?"

"If you're calling me Mozzie, I'll stop right here and let you walk."

Neal chuckled, "It wasn't my stalker. It was a friend's, but I didn't believe him when he told me. I thought he was being paranoid and selfish. And then she turned violent and nearly killed him. He was in the hospital for six weeks trying to recover."

"What'd she do to him?"

"Ran him over with her car. Then backed up, and ran him over again."

Peter winced in sympathy, "Ouch."

"I felt like if I had listened to him, it wouldn't have happened. If I had just seen the signs, then I would have been able to help him instead of turning him away. So I poured over the case and memorized her behavioral patterns from the very first time they met until the night she tried to kill him. I did so much research, I thought my head would explode with it, but I had to do it. It was my way of dealing with what happened."

"So then when Emi started showing the same signs…"

"I saw them this time," Neal smirked, "Guess all that research paid off."

"I'm grateful you did. I hate to think what she could have been capable of if you hadn't."

"Hey, what are friends for?"

Peter smirked as he parked in front of Neal's apartment, "Speaking of such, why don't you join me and Elle tonight for dinner?"

"Are you sure that's okay?"

"Elle and I were just going to order takeout anyway. You should join us. Elle's going to love this story and you might as well be the one to tell it."

"That sounds good. Let me change and grab some wine. I can't show up empty handed."

Peter rolled his eyes, "Right, because that would be a tragedy."

"You want to come up?"

Peter nodded and turned off the car, worrying for a moment about leaving it double parked. He followed Neal inside, not bothering to lock the door behind them since they would only be a few minutes. As Neal unlocked his apartment door, Peter stepped back.

"I'm going to call Elle and let her know what's going on."

Neal smirked, "You mean warn her?"

"Go get your wine," Peter chuckled, swatting at Neal's shoulder. He went to the end of the hall and stepped into the open room, dialing Elle's cell.

"How do you feel about having company for dinner?" he asked when she picked up.

_"If it's Neal, I'm all for it."_

Peter raised his eyebrows, "Really?"

Elle laughed, _"Don't sound so surprised. I miss him, too, you know. I know we decided to stay out of his personal life, but that doesn't mean we can't have him over every once in a while."_

"My thoughts exactly. Speaking of personal life, we might be staying out of his, but he's not staying out of mine."

_"What's he done now?"_

"Nothing bad. You might even get a laugh out of it."

_"I doubt it."_

Peter smiled, turning back to the hall, "Don't be so pessimistic, hon. Neal actually did a good…"

_"Peter?"_

Someone was in the hall. They walked lightly, barely making any noise, but Peter saw the shadow fall across the door. Quietly, he leaned against the door frame and peered into the hall just in time to catch a glimpse of a slight figure ducking into Neal's apartment.

Tucking away his phone and unlatching his gun, Peter moved quickly down the hall, swinging open the door. Neal stood at the table, his back to Peter and the intruder as he undid his tie and looked over his selection of wine. Behind him, Emi Holleran raised her right arm above his back, the blade of the knife glinting.

"Neal!" Peter yelled, surging forward. There was no time for him to grab his gun; if he didn't act quickly, Emi would kill him.

Neal turned as the knife arched downward, but he had the good sense to raise his arm to block it. Emi, distracted by Peter, lost the angle of her attack, and ended up only slicing a deep gash into Neal's forearm. Neal stumbled back, biting back a cry of pain. Peter wrapped his arm around Emi's waist and lifted her easily off the ground. Shrieking like a banshee, Emi swung the knife wildly and yelled obscenities at Neal as she tried in vain to kill him. Neal danced away, tripping over a chair as he tried to evade the knife, but he wasn't fast enough and felt the sting of the blade across his palm.

When Neal cried out for the second time, Peter had had enough. He grabbed Emi's arm and slammed her body on the table, knocking her wrist on the edge. Emi screeched in pain, and Peter felt the bones in her delicate wrist snap, but the knife tumbled to the ground. Emi blubbered and cried, moaning like a miserable wretch; Peter ignored her. He pulled out his cuffs and clasped them tightly around her wrists, not caring about pinching skin or grinding bones.

"Neal? Are you alright?" Peter asked loudly, glancing over his shoulder.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Neal answered. He stood near the wall, holding his wounded left arm up while cupping his injured right hand under it, the collected blood mixing over the open gash.

"You are not fine," Peter growled, jerking Emi upright and shoving her into the chair, "Grab a towel and press it over your arm. You need to stop the bleeding."

"It's not that bad, Peter," Neal protested as he hurried to the kitchen.

"The hell it's not!"

"Peter," Emi sniveled, "you hurt me-"

"Shut up," Peter snarled, "I don't want to hear a word out of you."

Emi snapped her mouth shut, chastened by his harsh tone. Peter was furious with her; it was taking all of his will power not to wring her neck. If he'd had time to pull his gun, he had no doubt that he would have put a bullet in her and never lost any sleep over it.

As Emi continued to whimper, Peter pulled out his phone and called the police, snapping off the address and facts with barely controlled rage. He stepped away from Emi, not far enough to leave her unattended, just far enough so he wouldn't be tempted to punch her. When he was assured the police were on their way, he turned to Neal, letting the anger sit on the back burner to simmer and the worry to boil over.

But Neal was standing perfectly upright, watching Peter warily. He'd wrapped a wash cloth around his hand and a towel around his arm, and he clutched both of them to his chest. But despite the blood stains and the small signs of pain on his face, he was actually smirking.

"So," he drawled, "I'm going to take a stab in the dark and say that she's the violent type?"

* * *

Forty-five minutes later, after Emi had been led away in handcuffs and Neal had been tended to by the paramedics and Detectives Ramona and Grady were finishing up their questioning, Elle appeared. Rather frazzled and slightly peeved at Peter for hanging up on her, she took one look at the scene and Neal's wrapped arm and demanded answers. Peter was reluctant to give them to her; what had started out as a slightly humorous story had turned into a horror script.

Neal, however, didn't seem fazed by the act of violence done to him.

"It barely needed stitches," he said as Elle inspected his arm, "Randy didn't even think it would scar."

Elle raised an eyebrow, "Randy?"

"The paramedic," Peter supplied, "Neal insists on being on a first name basis with all of his medical staff, apparently."

Elle nodded, wrapping her arm around Neal's right arm, mindful of his bandaged hand, "I still don't understand why she came after you, Neal. What on earth was she hoping to accomplish?"

"I was a distraction," Neal said with a nonchalant shrug, "She viewed me as an obstacle between her and Peter, so she had to get rid of me."

"Why would she think that?" Elle asked.

"I've been wondering the same thing," Peter said, eyeing Neal carefully, "If she viewed anyone as an obstacle it would have been Elle; she's my wife, for God's sake. So why would she focus on you?"

Neal averted his eyes, "She ruined my shirt. It was my favorite, too."

"Neal."

Neal sighed, "Fine. I may have diverted her attention a bit."

Peter narrowed his eyes, "How did you manage that?"

"Little things, really. She always brought you coffee from the shop down the street, so I would bring you coffee from June's because I knew you preferred it. When we worked on cases, I would go out of my way to get files before her or bring messages to you before she could. They weren't big things, but I knew in her head she would see me as trying to drive her away."

"You were making yourself a target," Peter growled.

Neal shrugged, "You said it yourself: she would target Elle. No one was taking me seriously and I knew it was only a matter of time before she snapped. If I couldn't control when or how, I could at least control who she went after."

"And you made sure it was you."

"It seemed like a good idea at the time. I think today was the final straw. She knew I was the one that convinced Connie to transfer her. It was the last push she needed to react."

"Neal, you shouldn't have put yourself at risk like that," Elle said, frowning, "What if Peter hadn't been here? She could have seriously hurt you, or worse."

"I wasn't expecting her to snap so quickly," Neal admitted, "Connie and I were working on getting her help before something bad happened, but we weren't quick enough. Peter, are you alright? You look like you swallowed glass."

Peter stood across the table from them, gripping the back of the chair tight enough to snap the wood. His face was the color of beats and his breath came in rapid pants that he was fighting to control; he was battling his temper, and he was losing.

"Of all the stupid ideas you've ever had that one takes the cake," he said with barely controlled anger, "It's the most idiotic and asinine thing I've ever heard."

"I had to do something, Peter."

"You did. You tried to tell me and I ignored you. Why couldn't you just leave it at that? It was my own doing."

Neal scoffed, "Right, because I could just ignore it and let my friend get hurt, just like I did last time. She was going to hurt you or Elle, and that wasn't okay."

"But you getting hurt instead is?"

"Well, I'm not entirely happy about it," Neal admitted, glancing at his arm, "but a few cuts are small prices to pay to keep you two safe."

"You shouldn't have to pay a price at all," Peter nearly shouted, tossing his hands in the air.

Detectives Ramona and Grady glanced at him from the doorway, raising eyebrows at his sudden display. Embarrassed by his lack of control, Peter turned away, wiping his hand over his mouth and breathing deeply. Elle moved to his side, molding her body against him as she pulled him into her arms.

"Peter," Neal said quietly, "it was my choice. I knew what I was doing; I knew what the risks were, but there was no way I was going to sit by and watch it happen, knowing I could do something to prevent it."

Detective Ramona approached them, "Agent Burke, I know this may not be the best time, but the forensic team is here. Is there somewhere Mr. Caffrey can stay while we process the scene?"

"He's coming home with us," Elle said before anyone had time to protest, "He'll be staying in our guest room for the next couple of days."

"Elle, I can't ask you to do that," Neal said quietly.

Her eyes were fierce as she turned to him, "You didn't."

Ramona cleared her throat, "Alright. We'll still need to get Neal's official statement, but I think that can wait until tomorrow. Here's my card. We'll be in touch."

Neal nodded, wincing in pain as he stood and moved his arm wrong. Elle was instantly by his side, wrapping him in a sideways hug as they headed for the door. Peter wordlessly grabbed Neal's coat and the overnight bag he'd already packed for Neal while he'd been looked at by Randy the paramedic, anticipating his wife's decision before it was even made. His anger was still seething as the trio stepped out of the house and onto the street.

"Elle, do you think you can take Neal to the house? I should get his prescriptions filled and I have a few things I need to take care of."

Translation: he needed time to himself to come to grips with what had happened before he blew his top and said something he would regret.

Elle smiled and kissed his cheeks, "It would be my pleasure."

But Neal was scowling, "I'm not taking pain meds."

Peter glared, "You will, and you will be happy about it."

Neal blinked at him and chuckled at the absurdity of his words. Peter smirked, watching them walk down the block where Elle had parked her car. Heaving a heavy sigh, Peter dug for his keys and unlocked his car, but a sudden reflection in the window stopped him.

Standing on the street behind him was the girl in the white trench coat from the vendor's cart.

He spun around, knowing it was no mere coincidence that she was here and remembering the strange encounter he'd had with her over the cup of cider. She smirked at him and turned on her heel, disappearing down the block and into the park. Unable to let the coincidence go, Peter hurried into traffic and followed her. The park was empty given the cold weather and falling snow, save for some pigeons gathering around the second bench along the pathway. The girl sat there with her legs crossed and two steaming cups in her hands. Silently, Peter sat beside her.

"Coffee?" she asked, offering him one of the cups. He took it wordlessly, "I'm betting you have a couple of questions, huh?"

He nodded, "You might say that."

She sipped her hot chocolate and smirked, "I can't answer them unless you ask, Peter."

"Let's start with that one," he said, "How do you know my name?"

"I know more than you think possible."

"That doesn't make me feel better. Have you been following me? Is that why you're here?"

She quirked an eyebrow, "Is this how you're going to view life now? You've had one stalker, so now everyone must be?"

He ground his teeth together, "How do you know about that? Who the hell are you?"

Her steel grey eyes met his, unperturbed by his hostile tone, "I don't have a name, and if I ever did, I don't remember it. Not that it matters. People in my line of work don't get recognition; we barely even get seen. So what good is a name?"

Peter sat dumbfounded, "You don't know your name?"

"Peter, you're a man of evidence and tangibility, but even you must realize by now that those are not the only things at work in this world."

"I don't understand," he said, shaking his head, "but I think you might need some help."

"I'm not the one in need of help; you are. Did you finally make the right decision?"

"What are you talking about? You're not still on that cider thing are you?"

She sighed heavily, lightly rubbing her temple, "You are a stubborn and hard headed man, Peter Burke. Usually people get the lesson they're supposed to learn after the second time, but you…even now after four times, I'm not sure you get it."

"Get what? What are you talking about?"

She studied him with her other worldly eyes, "I don't let people remember. It's a rule of mine, and I never deviate from the rules. But you…I think I'm going to make an exception."

"What…"

And then it came flooding back to him, images as clear as crystal, memories that he'd never known, but lived all the same.

_ Neal lying dead in his apartment, surrounded by broken glass and congealing blood, Peter hours too late to do a damn thing…_

_ Neal gasping and bleeding out, dying in Peter's arms as he and Elle wept, his last words hanging above them like a gasp in the wind…_

_ Neal murdered in his hospital bed while Peter stood less than a hundred feet away, drenched in his own blood because once again Peter had been too late…_

Nausea rolled through his stomach as the images passed. Hot tears cascaded down his face as he forced his head between his knees, struggling to breathe through the queasiness in his gut. A thousand emotions jolted through his heart: grief and anger, loss and hate, sorrow and anguish. He'd never felt such a rush of negative emotions and it threatened to overwhelm him; his head spun like a carnival ride, his heart raced like an engine.

"You handled that better than I thought," the woman said, her voice a thousand leagues under water, "I was sure you would pass out."

"What the hell…" he gasped, fought back the bile and tears, "What the hell was that?"

"That, Peter, was every choice you made. Every _wrong_ choice, I might add."

Testing his strength, Peter sat back, welcoming the cold air that burned his lungs as he breathed in deeply. Beside him, the girl seemed oblivious to his pain as she tore off pieces of a pretzel and tossed them to the carnivorous pigeons.

"I don't under…those aren't real. Neal is fine. He's…he's not _dead_."

"Not this time," she hummed, "You got it right this time around, which is good because I wasn't sure I was going to reset the board again. I was getting very impatient with you, Peter."

"Reset the board? What does that mean? What did you do?"

"I'll explain," she said, tossing a small piece far away from the pack for a sickly pigeon, "if you promise to listen."

"I'm listening."

"You're a skeptic, Peter. I know you aren't taking me seriously. You think I'm just as crazy as Emi, but what I'm about to tell you is the truth. So try to keep an open mind."

Steeling himself, Peter nodded. His stomach still churned and he had to keep reminding himself that Neal was, in fact, alive. The dreams, or memories, were so real that he was seconds away from calling Elle just so he could talk to Neal, just to make sure.

"Alright, here it goes. Life is one endless choice. There are some things about it that we can't decide for ourselves, things like where we're born, how we're raised, the environment that we're surrounded with. Those are constants, stagnant choices made for us. But there are other choices we make that only we control."

She leaned forward, breaking a limb off the branches that hung over them. With her stick, she shooed the pigeons away and drew the trunk of a tree in the snow, adding several thick branches to the sides.

"These are the constants," she explained, "They make up our life, and while we have control over tiny things-what block we live on, where we eat, what we wear-they don't hold a big impact on our lives. They are the insignificant choices. But then we have the variables"

She drew smaller branches onto the thicker limbs, swirling their tips out artfully.

"Our variable choices have big impacts on our lives. They take the path we're walking and change the direction, sometimes immensely, sometimes minutely. These variable choices have hundreds of outcomes that can lead to thousands of paths. Sometimes we get them right; sometimes we get them wrong. But all of these choices-the constants, the insignificants, and the variables-define our lives."

Peter stared at the tree in the snow, "Alright. I can accept that. It sounds like a philosophy lesson, but nothing too far out there. What's your point?"

"Sometimes people make the wrong variable choice. My job is to show them the possibilities, the other paths, if you will, so that they learn the lesson they were meant to and make the right decision. That's what I did today. I showed you the paths, and if you hadn't noticed, none of them ended well."

Peter arched an eyebrow at her, "So, you expect me to believe you control time?"

She whacked him with her stick, "I'm not going to explain my powers to you, knucklehead. You still haven't learned your lesson, yet."

Peter rubbed his cheek, "But you said I got it right."

"Oh, you made the right decision, alright. Emi is locked up tight, and Neal is alive, but you still haven't gotten that lesson into your thick skull."

"Well, why don't you just tell me so we can both get on with our lives?"

She poked his shoulder with the stick, "Or you can think about it and figure it out for yourself, and I won't shove this stick where the sun doesn't shine."

Startled by the imagery, Peter obeyed and thought back to all of the memories she'd shown him. He sifted through the feelings of grief and the ghastly images of Neal, finally reaching the starting point of each choice.

"The cider," he muttered, "You offered me cider, and the first two times I didn't take it. That was the choice? Whether or not I took a cup of cider?"

This time, she whacked him on the back of the head with the stick, "It wasn't the cider, dummy. You took it the third time and look how that one turned out."

Right. That was the time Neal was killed in the hospital. It hadn't been as quick as the other two times, but the result was still the same.

"So, not the cider?"

She rolled her eyes, "I can see I'm going to have to spell this out for you. It's what the cider represents, Peter."

Peter threw his hands in the air, "Can't you just tell me what it means?"

She raised her stick threateningly.

"Alright, I'll figure it out. Just…stop doing that."

He hated symbolism; it had been his most dread topic in English class. Why couldn't people just say what they meant instead of trying to be clever? How the heck was he supposed to know what a cup of cider represented?

"It's obvious," she said, watching the confused expression on his face, "All of the pieces are there. You just have to use that big brain of yours and figure it out."

All of the pieces might be there, but that didn't mean he knew how to recognize him. He thought back on the memories, cataloging each of their beginnings and the significant changes to the story after he'd taken, or not taken, the cider. Eventually, he noticed that it wasn't necessarily the order of events that changed, but rather his own behavior.

"The cider is…it's my friendship with Neal?"

"Very good. Now try that with a little more confidence and a little less of a question."

He glared at her, "Stop being so smug. I'm trying here."

Rolling her eyes again, she said, "You got it right; you just have to figure out what you're supposed to learn about it."

"What is there to learn? I don't understand how a cup of cider relates to me and Neal."

"Well think about it. What happened when you didn't take the cider the first time, when you flat out refused it?"

Peter swallowed, "Neal died."

"And the second time, when you considered it, but were more worried about your own life?"

"Neal died."

"And the third time, when you took it but immediately threw it away?"

Peter hung his head, "Neal died."

"I'm sensing a pattern, aren't you? Your friendship with Neal is a variable choice, Peter. It means more to the course of your life than you realize. It you refuse it, neglect it, or throw it away, it will alter your path in very bad ways, and those ways won't end well for Neal either."

Peter leaned forward, letting his hands dangle uselessly over his knees, "How could one friendship mean so much?"

"How could it not?"

They sat in silence, the pigeons flocking back to them in hopes of more scraps. Their tiny claws and flapping wings erased half of the tree, leaving a half finished drawing of lines and swirls. The girl drained the rest of her hot chocolate, but Peter couldn't bring himself to drink the coffee.

"I can't," Peter admitted softly, "He's a criminal, and he always will be. I promised to be less emotionally involved because our friendship never leads to anything good."

"You can justify it any way you want, Peter," she said, snapping her stick in half, "but all of the validation in the world isn't going to erase the truth. You have your evidence; you have your tangibility. It's time for you to start believing."

Peter snorted, "You sound like a science fiction show."

She smirked, "The truth is out there."

He shook his head, his amused smile fading, "What do I do now?"

"You go home and you fix what you broke. Eventually, the memories will fade to dreams. Even our little chat will seem like a dream, but hopefully you won't ever forget the lesson that you've learned."

Neal's pale face, splattered with blood, eyes wide open and unseeing, flashed through his mind. He shuddered and shook his head emphatically.

"Good," she said, standing, "then I've done my job."

"What are you anyway?" Peter asked as he stood, "Some kind of angel or something?"

She chuckled, "More like a ghost in the machine. See you around, Peter."

"Wait-"

But she tossed her broken kindling into the pigeons. Startled, the rats with wings flew in every direction, desperate to escape the threat. When the sound of flapping wings had faded and the feathers had settled, Peter stood alone in the park.

The Ghost in the Machine had vanished.

* * *

Elle was waiting for him when he got home. She met him on the porch, wrapped in her coat and scarf, looking like she was about to explode. He'd barely made it up the first step, questions still hanging on the tip of his tongue, before she burst.

"I was wrong," she blurted.

"I've never heard those words before," Peter muttered.

She smirked, but her antsy tension didn't leave, "I was wrong, Peter. We shouldn't distance ourselves from Neal. He should be here, all the time. He's our friend, and it shouldn't matter if he's a criminal with a rap sheet as long as my arm. He's family."

"I agree with everything you just said, except for him being here all the time. Even I need a break."

Elle smiled, "You took that a lot better than I'd anticipated."

"I've had time to think," he rubbed his cheek, "and a little sense was knocked in to me."

Elle stepped forward and let him wrap his arms around her, "I love you, and I'm always going to worry about you. But I worry about Neal, too, and it isn't fair of us to cast him out just because we're afraid of what _might_ happen."

"Hmm. It seems even when we aren't close bad things happen," Peter mused, "That might just be our lot in life."

"All the more reason to have him with us. The two of you always win when you work together."

He kissed her forehead, "My thoughts exactly. Now, can we go inside? I think I've lost feeling in my toes."

Laughing, Elle took his hand and opened the door. The burst of heat warmed Peter's cheeks and thawed his skin. Elle hung up their coats and scarves, but Peter's eyes were on Neal. The younger man lay stretched out on the couch, his injured hand hanging off the side and his fingers tangled in Satchmo's fur. The scene was so familiar, so right that it made Peter's chest ache.

"I'm making grilled cheese and soup," Elle murmured to her husband, "It won't be ready for a while."

Peter nodded, taking the hint from his wife and sitting on the coffee table edge across from Neal. Satchmo grunted, turning to rest his head on his owner's foot but refusing to leave the hand the ear scratches came from. Neal cracked open one eye at Peter.

"I'm not taking it," he muttered.

Peter smirked, remembering the short feud over the pain medicine. After what he'd been through that afternoon, making Neal take his pills was the last thing on his mind.

"We need to talk," Peter said softly, forgoing any pleasantries.

Neal sat upright, carefully cradling his arm, "Why does my stomach always drop when you say that?"

"Usually, because you've done something stupid. Today is no exception."

Neal rolled his eyes, "I'm not going to apologize."

Peter waved away the comment, sighing wearily, suddenly very exhausted. Watching your friend die three times over would do that to you.

"Neal, just…Just let me talk. You can complain after."

Neal opened his mouth to protest, thought better of it, and snapped it shut, leaning back against the couch and giving Peter the floor.

"I told you before that you were a criminal and that's all you would be until your sentence was up," Neal scowled at the reminder, but Peter pressed on, "I was wrong about that. It won't matter if four years pass or ten; you're always going to break the rules and be impulsive. That's not going to change."

"So what are you saying?" Neal asked warily, "You said we couldn't be friends until my sentence is over. If I'm always going to be a criminal to you, are we never going to be friends?"

"No," Peter said quickly, "that's not what I mean at all."

Neal rubbed his head tiredly, "Peter, it's been a really long day. Could you use simple words and just tell me what you mean?"

Peter leaned forward, "I mean that I don't care. I don't care that you're a criminal. I don't care if that part of your life never really changes. All I care about is you."

Neal blinked at him, amazed, "That's…wow."

"You are my friend, Neal. Everything else can wait."

"You pulled away for a reason, Peter, remember? Every time we try to be a part of each other's personal lives, bad things happen. One of us ends up hurt, or in jail."

"No one ever said friendship was easy," Peter admitted, "and while I could do without the orange jumpsuits and the hospital gowns, that's a part of it. We deal with it as it comes, but we deal with it together."

"And Elle," Neal asked, glancing to the kitchen, "How does she feel about this?"

Peter smirked, "Believe me, she's on board. If I didn't talk to you tonight, I'm pretty sure I would be sleeping on the couch."

Neal smiled, but it fell flat and he picked at the blanket covering his lap. Peter watched him carefully. It wasn't enough for Peter to apologize; Neal had to accept it, and forgive him.

"Neal," Peter said gently, "I don't expect you to jump up and down with excitement. I know what I said must have hurt you, and it can't be easy to forgive, but I want you to know how sorry I am. I never should have said what I did."

"How do I know you won't change your mind?" Neal asked, still staring at his blanket, "How do I know the next time something bad happens, you won't drop kick me out the door again? I don't handle rejection very well."

Peter rested his hand on Neal's shoulder, "I promise I won't."

It shouldn't have been that simple. Neal should have held a grudge, vented his anger, something to show how hurtful it had been when Peter called him criminal and tossed him to the curb. But he had wanted his friendship back with Peter more than anything, so it was easy to forgive, to let it go. Like blowing fresh snow from the palm of his hand.

"Thanks, Peter," he said, smiling wide.

Peter squeezed Neal's shoulder as relief washed through him, returning the smile with warmth. But it suddenly wasn't enough. Images of Neal's blood and death still haunted him; they lingered like ghosts on the edges of his vision, taunting him with what might have been. Impulsively, Peter gathered Neal to him, eager for the physical embrace to ward off the ghosts. Neal was all too happy to oblige…for the first minute.

"Um, Peter…I can't breathe."

Reluctantly, Peter let go, but he sat beside Neal on the couch and kept his hand on his shoulder.

"Are you okay?" Neal asked, "You seem a little shaken up."

Peter had no way of explaining what he was feeling to Neal. Even though things had turned out well and Neal had only ended up with superficial wounds, he'd still gotten hurt by being a friend to Peter when the other man would have nothing to do with him. The guilt was heavy and so were the memories. The girl had promised they would fade, but Peter wasn't sure he wanted them to, afraid the lesson would fade with them.

"I'm fine," Peter said, "I'm more worried about you."

Neal held up his bandaged appendages, "I'm alright. They barely even hurt."

"Only barely? Well, then I guess you should take these." Peter pulled out the medicine bottles from his jacket.

Neal scowled, "Peter, you know how much I hate those things."

"Don't you argue with him, Neal Caffrey," Elle scolded as she entered the living room with a tray of grilled cheese and three bowls of soup, "You're taking those and then you're going to bed."

"They haven't released my apartment yet," Neal reminded her.

"I didn't say anything about you going home," Elle said, handing him a glass of water, "I said bed, and there is a perfectly functional one in the guest room upstairs."

"Elle, you don't have to-"

"Neal, don't argue with her," Peter said, patting his knee, "You're just going to lose."

Neal chuckled, "Alright, I'll play nice."

"Good," Elle kissed his cheek, "Now dig in. Peter, will you get the sour cream from the fridge."

As Peter headed to the kitchen, he noticed the radio playing in the background. He'd been so focused on fixing things with Neal that he hadn't noticed Elle had it playing. But now as the quiet settled through the house, the song became clear.

_"…I'm bleeding out for you, for you…I'm bleeding out for you, for you…"_

Swallowing hard at the images the lyrics conjured, he glanced at the scene in his living room: Neal and Elizabeth sitting side by side, smiling and eating grilled cheese, Satchmo eagerly waiting for crumbs and scraps. It was the scene of a family.

And as the song faded out, Peter swore never to forget that again.

* * *

From her place outside, the girl in the white trench coat smiled as Peter Burke's life fell back on the correct path. As the family settled in for the night, she turned and headed down the street, pulling out a small red leather book from her coat. With a purple pen, she checked Peter Burke off her list.

"Now, who's next?" she muttered, trailing her finger down the list of names, "Harvey Specter about to fire his associate Michael Ross. Well that just won't do."

She snapped the book shut and put her hands in her pockets, tipping her head back as snow began to fall.

_**"Stop. Go forward."**_

* * *

**A/N: Just thought I'd explain a few things. First, the song Peter hears through out the story is Bleeding Out by Imagine Dragons. Aside from obvious reasons pertaining to the story, the songs meaning also fit well. It's about going the extra mile for a loved one, and missing them when they don't love you back, how I saw Neal feeling about Peter through the story. Second is the Ghost in the Machine. The phrase comes from a philosophy I don't understand, but I've also heard it referred to as our conscience. I saw her as an angel of conscience come to fix Peter's stupidity. And hit him with sticks, since I wanted to so badly.  
**

**That's it. I hope you enjoyed reading. And no worries, I'm still working on the sequel to Flatline! Adios!**


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